


Amor et Lux Perpetua

by syrupfactory



Series: Heaven & Earth [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anniversary, Dancing, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Futuristic Epilogue, Happily Ever After, Happy Ending, Honeymoon, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Married Couple, Post-Canon, Romance, Romantic Gestures, Saving the World, So Married, Solarpunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 09:04:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20288932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupfactory/pseuds/syrupfactory
Summary: After a successful and lovely second honeymoon, Crowley helps Aziraphale recover from some lingering guilt from a past misunderstanding. The two of them are settling back into their normal routine as husbands when heaven and hell shake things up with an unexpected ultimatum. For the first time, Aziraphale has to face the real possibility of leaving Earth forever... But no power in the universe will ever outshine the unique love between an angel and a demon.One thousand years later, they celebrate an important anniversary with gifts and a romantic evening in London.





	Amor et Lux Perpetua

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the third and final installment of this little series. Thanks to everyone who has read all three! <3
> 
> This fic can be reblogged on tumblr [here](https://meowdejavu.tumblr.com/post/187105140328/caritate-perpetua-aziraphalecrowley-6k-words).

Thanks to [daryshkart](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/189023047369/the-third-illustration-for-the-heaven-earth) on tumblr for creating this gorgeous commission! 

_ The Archangel Aziraphale stands in heaven, gazing at the floating blue orb of Earth. He lived there once, long ago, but it all feels so recent. In fact, it’s hard to remember anything else. He’d like to go back, but that’s not possible anymore. He’s walking alone, now, somewhere else—he’s gone to the sorting level, where they handle paperwork. Passing among rows of angels working at white desks, he stops when he finds an angel with close-cut red hair. “What is your name?” he asks. The angel answers, but Aziraphale can’t make out what he says. He doesn’t say “Crowley,” because that’s not his name anymore. Only Aziraphale remembers it. How could he let this happen to him? “Will you come for a walk with me?” he asks. He misses him so much. Why has he let so much time pass without coming to see him? The red-haired angel looks frightened. Aziraphale tells him he’s not in any trouble; he just wants to talk to him. The angel shakes his head, says he’s busy with work, terribly upset. Aziraphale takes his hand and pours love into him, like he’s not supposed to, like they used to do. The angel calms down, giving Aziraphale’s hand a curious look. _

Aziraphale jerks awake in bed, panting. His heart is racing, the awful dream still hanging in his mind. He goes to rub his face and finds his hands are clammy and shaking. 

It takes him a moment to remember where he is—waking up tends to be disorienting, he’s noticed, and after a disturbing dream, it’s much worse. They’re back in their flat in London, above the bookshop, he recalls. Just home from a lovely honeymoon adventure through some of his favorite spots across Europe—a successful second trip after their first attempt was cut short. Beside him, Crowley is asleep. And perfectly safe, thank heaven. Well, no thanks to them, actually. 

Aziraphale curls into him, slipping an arm around his waist from behind, trying to catch his breath. A hand slides over his. Their love streams connect, and Aziraphale knows Crowley instantly feels the disruption from his side. 

“Angel,” he says, turning to face him. “What is it?” 

Instead of answering, Aziraphale embraces him, burying his face in his husband’s shoulder. Crowley holds him and rubs his back, his love pouring in to help Aziraphale feel right again. 

“Bad dream?” Crowley asks.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his voice breaking. “It was so awful. I’ve got to stop sleeping.”

“Tell me.” 

Crowley’s voice is sweet, but the thought of answering him ties Aziraphale’s stomach in knots. 

“I … I’d rather not. Please, just hold me?”

In response, Crowley pulls him closer. “I’ve got you, love. Everything’s alright.” 

By mid-morning, Aziraphale’s love stream is renewed and strong, and he’s feeling much more level-headed. Crowley kisses his cheek and gives him a slightly concerned look, and Aziraphale is a bit mortified about the whole thing. 

“I’m alright,” he says. “Pardon the late-night shenanigans.”

“I’d hardly call it that.”

Aziraphale goes to sit up, and Crowley follows, slipping his arms around his waist from behind. 

“You don’t want to stay here for a while?” 

“Crowley, I’m fine. It was only a dream. I’m going to open the shop. See if anyone still remembers it.”

Crowley’s not quite satisfied, Aziraphale can see, but he just nods and kisses his hand. 

///

** _Paris — Three Weeks Ago_**

“How delectable,” Aziraphale sighed as he finished a vanilla macaron. 

Crowley just smiled at his husband’s predictable sweet tooth. They were sitting outside at a little cafe in Montmartre, under an awning to shelter them from a light evening drizzle. Somewhere nearby, a string quartet was playing, apparently undeterred by the weather.

Taking up another macaron, a pink one this time, Aziraphale admired it for a moment. “How can something so adorable and charmingly elegant possibly be so _ decadent _?”

Crowley could not resist. “I could say the same about you.”

Aziraphale paused mid-bite, his eyes going wide and color promptly blooming on his cheeks. 

Crowley laughed. “I’m sorry. It was too perfect. What are you if not equal parts elegant and cute and … well—”

“_Crowley_.”

“Oui, mon macaron mignon?” 

Aziraphale dabbed his mouth and glanced around as though a passer-by may have taken notice of how flustered he was. He shot Crowley an amused glare, and Crowley just basked in it, happy for how happy they were—glad that their second-attempt honeymoon was every bit as lovely as it was meant to be. He’d been thoroughly enjoying himself, possibly more than he ever had before. In the time since Aziraphale’s intense love-healing session, Crowley has felt like he’s been walking on air. All because he had six thousand years of self-loathing patched up by angelic love. 

They left the cafe after a while and walked together, huddled under one umbrella, dodging little puddles on the cobblestones. The music of the string quartet grew louder as they approached the famed artist square. Bordered by the artists selling their colorful paintings, the musicians were set up in the center under a tarpaulin strung up between the damp trees—and a newlywed couple was dancing to the tune. A few other pairs had joined in, but the two brides swaying in their long white gowns were drawing all the attention. In the misty glow of the evening, they made a dream-like sight. 

“How lovely,” Aziraphale remarked. 

“It is,” Crowley agreed without a hint of irony. 

Aziraphale looked at him. “You seem happy, dear.”

Crowley gave him a look. “I don’t know if happy quite covers it, angel. I’d say I’m the luckiest being in the universe.”

“Do you still see it as luck?” Aziraphale asked.

It was a friendly question in search only of an honest answer, but nevertheless, Crowley hesitated. He knew Aziraphale believed they had reached a predestined fate, but that wasn’t how Crowley’s mind worked. Even with his rosy new disposition. He understood the appeal, of course, in believing that all the chips had fallen exactly as they were meant to, so the two of them could end up blissfully in love—he’d never discourage the belief—but he felt pretty grounded in the harsh randomness of reality. 

“I don’t know that I see it in any particular way. Except, well, that I’m grateful for where we’ve ended up. Every day, I’m grateful.”

Aziraphale gave him a smile and squeezed his hand, gaze drifting back over to the musicians. Crowley could see, at once, what Aziraphale wanted to do. 

“Crowley?”

“Yes?”

“Would you ever…” Aziraphale started and hesitated, apparently ready to be disappointed. 

Had he not figured out that Crowley would give him the world if he could?

“Ever what?” Crowley asked, deliberately obtuse. 

“Dance? With me?” he finally managed.

“Well, that’s a silly question,” Crowley said, looking at him over his sunglasses. “You’re my husband. Who _ else _would I be dancing with?”

Forgoing the umbrella, he stepped toward the scene and held out a hand in invitation. Rather than taking it, Aziraphale rushed forward to embrace and kiss him. 

And then they danced in the rain. 

///

** _Present Day_**

It dawns on Crowley while he’s watering plants in the back of the shop that Aziraphale’s bad luck with dreams may not be bad luck at all. Rather, it stands to reason that he’s never slept enough to grow _ accustomed _to nightmares in any capacity, the way others would have. Still, Crowley feels a bit badly that their habit of dozing off together has had such an unpleasant consequence.

Just as he’s openly encouraging a fern—it’s hard to threaten plants when you’re looking at the world with heart eyes—Aziraphale appears next to him seeming uneasy. It’s been a busy reopening, so they haven’t had much time to talk.

“Something wrong?” Crowley asks a bit cautiously.

In response, Aziraphale just takes his hand, and Crowley immediately stops watering. Aziraphale’s love stream is warped with sadness for the second time today. 

“Angel,” he says, pulling him into an embrace and quickly transporting them to their bedroom. 

“I may have been wrong,” Aziraphale says, in an uncharacteristically small voice, “about being fine.”

Crowley wonders why he didn’t come to him sooner as he lets his own love naturally go to work to soothe Aziraphale’s. Even after the sadness has eased, though, Aziraphale’s love stream is still heavy with something that won’t seem to budge. It takes Crowley concentrating a while to work out that it’s a feeling he knows all too well: guilt.

“What is it?” Crowley asks. “What’s got you so out of sorts, huh?”

“I hate to admit it, but I couldn’t seem to shake that awful dream all day.”

Crowley had figured as much. 

“I don’t … know if I should describe it,” Aziraphale goes on.

Crowley looks him in the eyes. “You can tell me anything. Whatever it is, you don’t have to face it alone.”

That was a good response, he feels like. Solid husband support. Maybe the love healing session has made him more empathetic, to boot. Or maybe he’s getting better at understanding his partner. Whatever it is, he means every word.

Aziraphale sighs, and when he speaks, his voice is oddly small again. “I saw what might have been. If heaven had their way, made me an archangel, and if you had submitted to… Crowley. It was terrible.”

Crowley takes him by the shoulders, stunned to see him so agonized over this. “Aziraphale, that will _ never _happen.”

“Yes, but there was a moment when I allowed for the possibility,” Aziraphale says, voice and expression deeply pained. “How could I have—? I could never—”

“I didn’t know this was on your mind. Was it there on our trip?”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale sighs. “I had a wonderful time. I suppose this was … lying in wait.”

“But why? All you did was tell me the truth—all you did was respect my free will. You never expected me to want it.”

“No, but,” Aziraphale manages, chest heaving, “I, ugh, I hurt you so badly.”

Crowley realizes with a start that it must have been acutely horrible for Aziraphale to feel his broken love stream that day after destroying the archangelship contract. 

“What? No, Aziraphale, that wasn’t all because of you. They played me like a fiddle before I got back to you. They told me that I held you back, that you would have been the most glorious angel of all time if it weren’t for me. They told me to stop you signing the contract, to keep doing my good work.”

Aziraphale is absorbing this new information intently. “Oh, dear, is _ that _what they told you?” 

“They played us both. Set us up to hurt each other. Don’t blame yourself. You healed me, remember?”

Aziraphale nods. “The damage was so deep.”

“And now I’m better than ever. Thanks to you.”

They embrace again, and Crowley is hopeful, but he can feel the same weight of guilt warping Aziraphale’s otherwise bright and steady love. 

“We should get back to the shop,” Aziraphale says after a moment. 

“It’s closed,” Crowley says, rubbing his arm. “I closed it when we came up here.”

“You did? Oh.”

“It’s just us.”

Aziraphale sighs and sinks into the bed, looking solemnly thoughtful. Crowley just sits beside him for a while. 

“I was back in heaven,” Aziraphale says hesitantly, breaking the silence. “In the dream, of course. I had been an archangel for some time. I found you, but you weren’t yourself anymore. I tried to talk to you, to be friendly, but you didn’t know me and you were afraid. I hated myself for letting them touch you. For taking away all that you were. It felt so real, and I was so miserable.”

Aziraphale pauses to wipe his face. Crowley hates to see him like this, but he knows what it’s like to be consumed by a mistake—real or perceived. And it’s the narrowly avoided pitfalls that haunt most easily.

“I would never let them have you,” Aziraphale goes on, turning and holding Crowley’s shoulders, voice so strained as to be unrecognizable. “I shouldn’t have dignified their offer with one second of consideration… I love you so much, Crowley. You’re so wonderful and perfect just as you are, and I—I love your bright, beautiful mind. I always have. I wouldn’t give you up for anything.”

“I know,” Crowley says, pulling him close and stroking his back. “Aziraphale, I know. You mean everything to me, too. Nothing will ever come between us.”

Aziraphale is shaking with sobs, the guilt unabated. 

Crowley sighs, considering a new angle. “Imagine a happy ending.”

“What?” Azirapahle asks, sitting up again and giving him a look through rosy eyelids.

“For your dream scenario. Give it a happy ending. Say you’d ... find my stolen memories, somehow, and rescue me, and then we’d make a break for it. Together.”

At that, a small smile curves Aziraphale’s lips. “That is a nice thought. Perhaps … perhaps Alpha Centauri, as you once proposed.”

“Right, exactly! They’d never keep us apart. Not a chance.”

Aziraphale’s smile grows into real amusement. “When did you become the optimist?”

“I’m not _ optimistic _,” Crowley scoffs. “It’s a proven fact at this point. That’s the one and only thing I’m certain of.”

Aziraphale takes his hand and smiles again. He’s no longer crying, though still weighed down by guilt. 

“Crowley, I just need you to know: I’m sorry I hurt you. Although it was a complicated situation, I regret not approaching it with more care.”

Crowley’s head swims with possible responses before something occurs to him: The guilt is still there because Aziraphale is actively holding onto it. With that in mind, the words come.

“You showed me that a million times over. If you need to hear me say it: I forgive you. Completely. Easily. Not that I think my forgiveness is necessary.”

“But it is appreciated,” Aziraphale says softly, squeezing his hand. 

“Will you do something for me, now?” Crowley asks. “As a special favor?”

“Oh? Yes, of course. Anything.”

Crowley kisses his cheek. “Forgive _ yourself_. Don’t let this eat up _ your _ bright, perfect, beautiful mind anymore, hmm?”

Aziraphale looks at him in wonder, visibly touched, and nods. And just like that, the guilt fully recedes—he’s let it go. 

///

** _Krakow — Two Weeks Ago_**

Every hour on the hour in Krakow, a trumpeter appears in a tower window at St. Mary’s Basilica and plays a traditional five-note anthem. It was this very trumpeting that sounded as Aziraphale and Crowley passed by the church into the main square on their first day in the city together, and it was the reason Crowley’s face was upturned in idle curiosity when Aziraphale spotted an odd string of beads on the ground just in their path.

“Stop!” he said, mostly on instinct. 

Crowley paused in his tracks, confused, while Aziraphale leaned down to inspect the object and confirmed his suspicions—it was a rosary with a crucifix. 

“Good heavens,” he said, quickly miracling it over to the steps of the church. “Do pay attention.” 

They continued on, pausing when Aziraphale stopped to take in the charming little square, bordered by its colorful medieval buildings. Everywhere he looked, it was alive with people enjoying themselves in the afternoon sun. At the heart of the scene, someone was using a wand to create large, iridescent soap bubbles that caught the light as they drifted through the air.

“You … know that stepping on a tiny cross wouldn’t kill me, yeah?” Crowley asked belatedly.

“Nevertheless, I’d hate to see you steaming. Can’t be too careful, really.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Crowley smirking. 

“Something funny?” he asked.

Crowley took him by surprise by embracing him from behind, his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Am I laughing?” he asked sweetly. 

He’d always been kinder than he cared to admit, but on their second and successful honeymoon, he had seemed to become fully unabashed about his sentimental side, no longer reserving it for intimate moments. 

Aziraphale covered Crowley’s hand with his own and found his love stream flowing at full, unrestrained force, radiantly happy. His promptly responded, engulfing them in their glow—humans either couldn’t see it, can’t react to it, or immediately forget it, they had resolved, so letting it happen in public didn’t concern him. 

“You’re sweet, and considerate, and, perhaps, wildy overprotective, and I wouldn’t change a thing,” Crowley said, speaking into his ear. 

He pressed a kiss to his jaw just after, and Aziraphale melted. Suddenly, he’d lost interest in the pretty scenery.

“What’s say we pop back—” he started, gesturing in the direction of their hotel instead of speaking the words.

As he did, a blast of light escaped his hand. They both followed it with their eyes—it had hit a nearby tree. And the tree was now glowing. It appeared otherwise unaffected; even the birds perched on a few branches weren’t disturbed.

Glancing around, Crowley flung his own hand at a horse-drawn carriage passing through the square. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolded, but the same thing happened again. 

The light “stuck” to the full carriage, conforming to its shape, but the two white horses and their human passengers appeared none the wiser.

“Huh,” Aziraphale said, entirely unsure what to make of this discovery. 

“Huh.”

They exchanged happy shrugs, and then Aziraphale remembered where they were headed before the distraction. 

He promptly popped them back to their hotel room, where he pushed Crowley onto the bed and climbed on top of him, feeling a bit bold since the mid-day tryst was his idea. Kissing his husband’s neck, he didn’t vanish their clothes just yet. Crowley’s hands took hold of Aziraphale’s waist, impatiently pulling their hips together. Aziraphale could feel how much Crowley wanted him twofold—his love stream and his body making it perfectly clear. 

“A bit odd,” Crowley breathed, “to think that we went six thousand years without this, huh? And now we can hardly go a day withou—_ ah_.” 

Aziraphale smiled, both at his words and his squirming. “Fortunately, we have all the time in the universe to carry on.”

Crowley touched Aziraphale’s face, then, his expression suddenly serious. 

“I hope so, angel,” he said, voice soft and earnest. “I _ really _hope so.”

It wasn’t a matter of hope for Aziraphale—he felt quite confidently that they wouldn’t be forced to give up their bodies or their life on this planet any sooner than they wanted. But he didn’t get the chance to reply, because Crowley had pulled him to his lips. And just like that, their clothes were gone. 

As Aziraphale lost himself to making love, to the now-familiar feeling of moving within his husband’s body, he knew Crowley was right: It would be unthinkable to give this up, now that they had experienced it. For so long, he’d pushed away any idle fantasies, reprimanding himself for such silly thoughts. But reality was far more wonderful than anything he’d ever imagined. He wondered, as well, if Crowley would ever come to believe, as he did, that they had reached their destiny. It didn’t trouble him in the slightest to think they saw things differently—of course they did—but he did sometimes wish for Crowley to experience the serene contentment of certainty. But that wasn’t something he could guide him to; it was a conclusion he’d have to draw for himself. And Aziraphale suspected that he might just get there, some day. 

///

** _Present Day_**

Aziraphale is lounging in the empty bookshop, sitting on one of the cushions in the front by the tea bar, looking up at the string lights and idly turning his wedding ring on his finger. In the space between midnight and dawn, he’s set aside his book and empty teacup to simply reflect. The change to the shop has been largely good; it’s been a fun experiment to run a popular place, and better yet, no one even thinks of buying a book—in fact, many customers seem to assume they’re purely decorative and not for sale, which is a happy outcome he hadn’t anticipated. 

It’s a path he might never have taken had he not had Crowley there to forge it with him. Since their park wedding less than a year ago, marriage has already proved to be a brand new adventure in so many ways. Truly, no one understands him better, and he’s certain Crowley would say the same. Thinking of passing their coming decades and centuries and millennia together doesn’t frighten him in the slightest—the thought is deeply exciting. 

Just then, Crowley seems to materialize from his thoughts, dropping to sit beside him. 

“The plants look lovely, dear,” Aziraphale says. “And they’re so happy here, too. What a perfect idea.”

Crowley rubs his knee in reply. “How are you?”

“I am perfectly well, thank you. Although … I’m not planning to sleep anymore. Not for a while, at least. But I’ll still lie beside you while you rest, if you li—” 

Crowley cuts him off by kissing him, and Aziraphale happily returns the affection. 

Abruptly, Crowley’s kisses stop. Aziraphale opens his eyes to find Crowley looking to the side, expression alarmed, as though he’s listening to something. But the night is quiet.

“Darling?” Aziraphale asks, touching Crowley’s shoulder. “What is it?”

“Shield,” Crowley says, taking Aziraphale’s hands in his. 

At once, their love streams flow together at full force and engulf them in light. Crowley’s is warped with fear, though, and Aziraphale has no notion as to why.

“Something’s close by,” Crowley says, yellow eyes full of dread. “I don’t know what.”

Before Aziraphale can think of a response, a sudden tremor ripples violently through the ground, knocking books from shelves. They share an alarmed glance and pop outside to see what’s happening, hands firmly joined. 

The earthquake has the whole block shaking, and in the streetlights, he can see that the road has even buckled in one spot. Aziraphale promptly attempts a miracle to stop it, but … he can’t. Something is blocking him. And the damage is growing; down the way, debris drops into the street, while sirens wail in the distance. 

A ghastly figure appears in front of them, floating and cloaked in black, with an empty void where a face should be. And then, just as suddenly, there are twenty more. Crowley’s grip on his hand tightens. Aziraphale recognizes them as wraiths, messengers of hell that once tried to use Crowley as a puppet. They will never do that again, he thinks in silent rage; they’re safe behind their love shield. 

Another wraith materializes even closer to them, and without really deciding to do so, Aziraphale lifts his hand and blasts their love stream directly at it. 

The wraith explodes into dust. 

He and Crowley eye each other, pleasantly surprised, and then get to work sending blasts out at the rest of them with their free hands.

At first, it seems to be working. They’re reducing the lot of them to dust, but Aziraphale quickly realizes it’s not enough. More and more are appearing around them, faster than they can wipe them out, so many that all he can see is black cloaks. 

All the while, London still crumbles around them. 

“There’s too many,” Crowley says. 

A lightbulb goes off in Aziraphale’s mind. He stretches his free arm out between them. “Put your hand over mine.”

Crowley quickly grasps his meaning and does so. Their combined blast wipes out fifty wraiths at once. 

“That’s more like it,” Aziraphale says. 

But Crowley isn’t celebrating, and when Aziraphale follows his gaze, he sees why: The full council of archangels is standing across the road, looking right at them, and just a few meters away from them stands a cluster of high-ranking demons doing the same. 

“Are YOU behind all this?” Aziraphale asks.

“You left us with no other options,” Gabriel says with murder in his eyes. “I’m sure you can imagine how frustrating that was for us.”

“Now you have two choices,” Uriel calls out. “You can stay and watch the world you love crumble, or you can leave. Forever.”

“We may not be able to touch you,” Dagon adds. “But we _ can _kick you out.”

Aziraphale is trying to process what he’s hearing and seeing—this is not how things were meant to go; they were safe now, they were going to be okay. They were going to be happy. But buildings are coming apart, gashes are spreading through the concrete, and there’s nothing they can do to stop the world falling apart. 

Without even looking at each other, he and Crowley raise their arms at once and fire the biggest blast they can conjure at the group across the road. But the lot of them vanishes before it hits, of course.

Aziraphale turns to face Crowley, feeling a weight on his chest. “I hear … Alpha Centauri is lovely.”

“Angel, I’m sorry,” Crowley says, brow furrowed, eyes full of sorrow.

Seeing him so anguished sets off Aziraphale’s protective instincts at once. 

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale says, offering a sad smile. “We’ll be alright. I would go anywhere with you.”

Eyes glistening, Crowley cups Aziraphale’s face in his hands, kisses him, and then pulls him into a tight embrace. Aziraphale hears a slight whimper as Crowely drags his nose across Aziraphale’s collar and hair, trailing kisses and breathing his scent. He understands; he’s also committing every detail of his touch to memory. They will discorporate in the vacuum of space, he knows, as their bodies were never meant to exist outside of Earth. He will miss this world and all of its pleasures and oddities, but most of all, he will miss the feeling of his body holding his husband’s body and being held in return. He is grateful to have experienced it all, grateful for the time they have had together, for the chance to feel and know each other in this form, no matter what comes next.

In their last moments on the rapidly deteriorating London street, Aziraphale remembers the words Crowley used to help him recover from a different nightmare: _ Imagine a happy ending. _So, he does. He pictures the two of them forever entwined in the void, perhaps creating beautiful nebulae together, spreading love through the cosmos. There’s something poetic about it, he acknowledges, even if it’s not what he hoped for. 

A short distance from their feet, another large gash opens in the road. They’re out of time, they both know. 

Still holding each other, Aziraphale and Crowley disappear. 

///

The two of them reappear roughly 100,000 kilometers above England, outside of the planet’s atmosphere. 

Crowley was anticipating a more significant change in the way he felt, and he’s surprised to find that he’s still actively holding onto Aziraphale. Confused, he opens his eyes to find the same confusion on his husband’s face. They’re floating in outer space, still engulfed in their glow, still in their _ bodies_. 

_ We didn’t discorporate_, Aziraphale says, though there’s no sound. 

Aziraphale glances at where they came from, then, and his expression changes to one of wonder. Crowley follows his gaze and understands why: Far above the planet, it’s been reduced to a simple blue orb, floating in the vast darkness. He’s struck, at once, by how simple it all seems from up here. How small and precious. How … manageable. 

It’s in this moment that Crowley understands what they need to do, and he knows Aziraphale has realized the same. It’s in this moment that Crowley can finally see the clear paths that have led them to this point, where they were meant to be. It’s in this moment that he grasps the true beauty of the great plan—from the time he fell to when they first met to stopping Armageddon and all of it.

It’s in this moment that, for the first time, Crowley believes in their shared purpose. And, in that instant, the brightness and power of their glow increases ten times over. 

The surge is intense, and it takes Crowley a moment to gather his wits as he’s overwhelmed by it. It never seemed as though anything was missing from their love stream before, but now that their faith is flowing through it like electricity through a wire, Crowley understands that Aziraphale has long been asking a silent question he’s finally able to answer. 

When he looks over at Aziraphale, he finds his head tilted back in a state of euphoria. When he opens his eyes again, light spills out of them.

Crowley holds out his hand, palm down, toward the Earth, and Azirapahle places his on top. Together, they pour their love onto the planet. It emerges from them in a radiant, sparkling stream, which gradually surrounds the globe, forming a protective shield for all life on Earth. The action is effortless and untaxing, since the source is infinite. When the planet is fully enveloped by a new, subtle glow, they stop pouring and embrace. They’re there for a while, hanging in space above the world they love, which is now fully protected from both heaven and hell. The other angels and demons won’t be able to enter, or meddle, anymore. Only the almighty herself could reach through that barrier. And that seems for the best. 

Crowley and Aziraphale look at each other again through their glowing eyes. 

_ Let’s go home_, Crowley says. 

Aziraphale kisses him, and if they weren’t in outer space glowing bright as a star after having just saved the world, it _ might _feel like any other kiss. 

And then, they return home. Back to the world. Back to London. Finally free. 

///

** _Epilogue_ **

** _London — Year 3020 _**

“Oh my, how lovely,” Aziraphale is saying as he surveys the painting, admiring its detail and gilded frame. “Yes, this is perfect. Thank you for tracking it down for me.”

The art attendant smiles and nods, moving to wrap the picture in cloth before boxing it up. Aziraphale sighs with delight. It wasn’t easy to find a physical copy of the piece he wanted, but now it’s here, ready for its recipient. 

He’s holding that same box under one arm as he leaves the museum. The sun is just beginning to set, painting the sky, and the algae lamps have not yet illuminated. The air is warm with a crisp wind off of the Thames, and he feels as though the evening itself is full of anticipation alongside him. 

“There you are,” comes a familiar voice. 

Aziraphale turns and sees his husband approaching, familiar lanky stride and hands tucked in pockets. 

“Crowley! We were meeting at the park. You aren’t meant to see where I’m coming from. You’ll spoil the surprise.”

“I saw nothing, I swear,” Crowley says, coming closer, yellow eyes gleaming. He doesn’t wear sunglasses as consistently now, perhaps in part because no one in the 31st century shows even the slightest surprise at what they’d perceive as facial modifications.

“I just thought we could walk together,” he goes on. “I’ve barely seen you today.”

“Uh-huh,” Aziraphale nods. He’s half-listening, to be honest, because he keeps swooning over Crowley’s newest hairstyle: He’s gone back to wearing it long and curly, like the old days. It frames his face so beautifully in this light, and just yesterday it was splayed round his head on a pillow while they—. 

“Why are you lookin—? Angel, are you _ still _reacting to my hair?”

“I can’t help it! You look so dashing. I feel like I have a schoolboy crush.”

Crowley laughs at that and pulls him into a kiss. They walk together afterward, Aziraphale carrying his box and Crowley’s arm slung around his shoulders. After a while, the algae lamps come alive with a soft glow that will steadily increase as the natural light dims, officially welcoming nightfall. Crowley’s shimmery black jacket catches the light in a very lovely way. 

“Well, I suppose this is as good a spot as any,” Aziraphale says when they’ve found themselves in a garden area next to the river. 

Crowley nods in agreement and they claim a bench. 

“I suppose I’ll go first, and then you can reveal your secret evening arrangements,” Aziraphale says, hoisting the package to his lap and handing it over. “Happy anniversary.”

It was on this day one thousand years before that they stood outside and exchanged wedding rings—the same rings they’re still wearing now. They haven’t formally celebrated every single anniversary of the date in that time, but this one called for something special. 

Crowley smiles at him as he takes it and starts to carefully work the box open, his shiny black nails gleaming and his curls swaying a bit in the light breeze. Aziraphale’s heart is racing in spite of himself. He’s been so excited about this particular gift for ages; it feels surreal that the moment has arrived.

“Oh, wow,” Crowley says to see the painting unwrapped. “Regent’s Park.”

“As we remember it,” Aziraphale says, nodding. 

“On a perfect day a thousand years ago,” Crowley agrees. “It’s gorgeous, Aziraphale. I love it.”

Crowley takes his hand, his love stream jubilantly happy, and they kiss again. Crowley has given no hints about his own surprise, except for telling him to keep the evening free, and Aziraphale is exploding with curiosity. 

When they’re facing each other again, Crowley reaches into his jacket and produces an envelope. “Happy anniversary.”

Aziraphale marvels at the silky texture of modern paper—he’s still getting used to that. Lifting the flap, he finds two tickets inside and nearly discorporates when he reads what’s printed on them. 

“Oh! Oh, my. Crowley! Really?”

Crowley nods.

“But,” Aziraphale goes on, confused, “when it reopened, you called it a dreadful gimmick and said that you’d never—.”

“I know what I said. I wanted to surprise you,” Crowley responds with a shrug. “I bought the tickets around that same time. Fair and square, no miracles.” 

“That was _ three _years ago!” Aziraphale exclaims, giving Crowley’s shoulder a playful shove.

Crowley chuckles. “Hopefully it will have been worth the wait.”

Aziraphale’s jaw drops in renewed surprise at Crowley’s long con, and then he clutches the tickets against his chest. He spares a glance across the river, shaking his head in disbelief. Abruptly, his joy deflates a little.

“And all I got you was a painting.”

“Don’t say that,” Crowley says, running his nails through Aziraphale’s hair. “I love the painting. It’s perfect.”

Aziraphale practically throws himself on him, kissing him with the level of enthusiasm he’d normally reserve for private interactions. Their love streams unite, bright and jubilant.

///

Crowley can feel Aziraphale practically vibrating with excitement as they approach the London Eye, arms linked, now that the sun has set. He suppresses a laugh to remember how absurdly easy it was to fool him—after a single snide remark, Aziraphale never once mentioned wanting to ride together and see the newest update, though he very obviously _ did _want to. Crowley kept thinking he’d have to deflect again, to really drive home his faux disdain, but Aziraphale just … took him at his word. 

As if Crowley wouldn’t do literally anything for him. 

When they’re shown to their private capsule, Aziraphale gasps to find it set up with a table and scattered rose petals. 

“Oh, champagne and strawberries! Crowley, this is so lovely.”

Crowley doesn’t need to respond, because Aziraphale has already bounded over to the windows for the optimal view. He steps up behind him and lets his arms encircle Aziraphale’s waist. Across the gleaming river stands the renovated Big Ben—Crowley is still getting used to the new architecture that incorporates weaves of plants into the clock tower, but it’s striking as ever at night.

The ride starts to move, carrying their pod upwards, and when it’s reached the top of the wheel, it smoothly detaches, soaring out above the river in a gentle glide through the air. It carries them over South Bank first, then farther along, detouring through neighborhoods along the Thames, following its pre-charted course. London has changed a lot in the last few centuries, but it’s always looked most magical at night—and the pods have special clearance to fly lower and more slowly than any other air vehicles. Which is definitely a gimmick. But an enjoyable one.

Aziraphale’s hand finds Crowley’s and covers it, sharing sparks of blissful love. “This is a wonderful surprise, darling.”

“Good,” Crowley says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Happy thousandth anniversary.”

When they’ve reached a good spot over the glowing city lights, Aziraphale pauses the pod’s route so that it hovers in place. They take their seats at the table in the center. 

“To another millennium,” Crowley says, holding out his glass. 

Aziraphale smiles. “To another _ seven_.”

Aziraphale might be a little too trusting, but it’s Crowley who comes completely undone at what seems to be a simple statement for his husband. He reaches over and takes Aziraphale’s free hand at that, squeezing it in his own, letting the love flow. And then he remembers to complete the toast.

He watches his husband enjoy the refreshments, still buzzing with excitement. 

“You’re a little bit of an idiot, you know,” Crowley says sweetly, nudging him with his food beneath the table. “If you still haven’t figured out that I’d do anything you wanted.”

Aziraphale just smiles as he eats a strawberry. “Oh, but you know it’s not the same if it’s not something you also want to do.”

“Consider me on board for anything that makes you this happy.”

“Awww,” Aziraphale teases, taking a sip. “In that case, how about keeping that hair for another century or so?”

Crowley laughs. “I really had no idea it would have such an effect on you.”

“Then perhaps we’re _ both _idiots, hmm?”

“Oh, no doubts there.”

They both notice belatedly that the pod has resumed its slow glide through the air, their allotted hovering time up. Aziraphale wipes his mouth and dashes back to the windows, Crowley following. 

When the pod docks back at the Eye and they disembark, the attendant asks how they found it. 

Without missing a beat, Aziraphale looks over at Crowley and replies, “Unforgettable.”

///

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this trilogy! ♥
> 
> You may want to check out [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21527242), which is a spin-off of the futuristic epilogue here. :)


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